


My Dear, Sweet Emily

by beththetrickster



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Creepy, I feel so creepy and disturbed right now, Masturbation, Pedophilia, Stalking, i know it's really short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beththetrickster/pseuds/beththetrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn’t tell who it was, no, it was too dark. But the way the stranger’s bony, pale knuckles brushed against Emily's cheek while she peacefully slept was eerie enough to make Corvo shiver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dear, Sweet Emily

Sometimes, on mornings when the air was crisp and the ground was covered in a thin layer of dew, Patrick would leave the confines of his room to stand out on the balcony of his apartment. It wasn’t as though there was much to see; the plague had ravaged Drapers Ward - as well as most of the rest of the city - in only a year. So now all he could stare at was a series of empty streets, who would occasionally be crossed by a wayward scrap of paper, blown about by a sudden gust of wind.

When employment was no longer an obligation with which the arthritis-ridden dressmaker had to deal, and streets that had once been busy and booming were now filled with only the whistling of wind through uninhabited alleys, the days began to blur together. Sometimes months would pass by before he picked up the useless habit of keeping track of the dates.

After all, what use was it knowing if today was Saturday?

On that early Saturday morning, the dressmaker went about his daily routine. Staring at the pale doll with the haunting blue eyes, he reached up and grabbed Mrs. Pilsen by her ragdoll waist. He tucked her into place next to a heavy wooden box and nodded in approval.

 

Over the years, he’d been among the many dressmakers that worked for the Kaldwins, but surely he had to be the most cherished. At least, that’s what he told himself day after day. It was an honor just to be at such a close proximity to Empress Jessamine, who was even more beautiful and kind than the rumors claimed. But his favourite part of the job by far was seeing young Lady Emily. Her sparkling brown eyes and effervescent smile lit up his every day.

Perhaps it was the way his gaze would linger on the young girl that made the Royal Protector suspicious of him. Truth be told, Patrick never did like Corvo Attano much, because each time their eyes met, he felt the Lord Protector trying to read him. And the dressmaker did not like being read.

 

One evening, when the insomnia with which Corvo was occasionally plagued struck again, he decided to take a stroll through the dark hallways of the tower. He bypassed many doors, each of them closed. This would normally not cause Corvo any concern except for when he came to Emily’s room.

Only seven years old at the time, Emily had a fear of monsters under her bed, in her closet; malevolent creatures that hid in the places she was familiar with when night fell. For this reason, her bedroom door was always wide open, so that her mother, the guards, and the Royal Protector were only a shout away, should any of these demons dare attack her.

Corvo felt a spine chilling sensation as a cold breeze from the opened window in the hallway rushed past him. But the suspicion that something was wrong remained inside of him, nagging at his mind until it persuaded him to investigate. Corvo inched towards the door and gripped the handle, slowly turning it to find that it was locked. He knelt down to peer in the keyhole, and all doubt was cast aside as his gaze settled on a dark figure at her bedside. He couldn’t tell who it was, no, it was too dark. But the way the stranger’s bony, pale knuckles brushed against Emily’s cheek while she peacefully slept was eerie enough to make Corvo shiver. It was the blade that gleamed in the man's other hand that snapped Corvo out of his fear-stricken trance.

His actions were fueled by adrenaline as he rose from his crouched position and took several steps back. Digging his left heel firmly into the floor, he charged at the door and rammed it with his shoulder. He felt the wood of the doorframe make a cracking noise at the contact. He’d surely alerted the intruder, and knew if he didn’t break in quickly...

It took three more tries before the door finally caved, and when Corvo burst in, ready to tear the man apart with his bare hands, he was gone. The window, however, was wide open, and Corvo stared down in disbelief at the water beneath it.

Emily was now awake and confused, if not slightly afraid. “Corvo? What are you doing?” She asked groggily. Her eyes widened at the sight of the mess Corvo had created breaking into her room. “What did you do to my door?”

Corvo paused. “I... uh.”

By now, the ruckus had alerted the guards, as well as Jessamine and two of the maids, and the lot of them were gathered by the doorway. Corvo told Emily something to reassure her that he was still sane, then they exchanged goodnights.

“What on earth is going on?” Jessamine demanded. Having spent many years with her, Corvo knew that if there was one thing that made Jessamine irritable, it was 3 AM.  
While Corvo was explaining the situation, a man whose lungs were on fire stopped to catch his breath at the empty waterlocks. Patrick reached into his drenched pocket to remove the small clear bag, containing a dry lock of hair from his dear, sweet Emily Kaldwin.

 

That had been years ago, and as Patrick looked back on it, he decided he’d simply had luck on his side that day. Perhaps Luck knew what it meant to him, this treasure.  
He kept it in a box, the lid torn from its hinges, atop a table in his studio. It was his most prized possession, a reminder of the young girl who’d captivated him since the day he set eyes on her.

“Damn that Corvo!” Patrick suddenly exclaimed, bringing his fist down on the table hard enough to feel it splinter. If only Corvo hadn’t kidnapped the dear girl, Patrick would have taken her himself. Being the daughter of an Empress posed so many risks, and Patrick felt nauseous when he tried to imagine Emily enduring those hardships. If only he could keep her with him, she’d always be safe. He would keep her safe, forever.

If he closed his eyes, he could still remember the sound of her shallow breath as she tried to hold still while he worked needles through the seams of her dresses. He could smell the soap she used, it smelled of honey and vanilla. He could feel her, warm under his hand, as he fitted the dresses to the Empress’ liking. And while Patrick lost himself in these ethereal imaginings, he reached down for the hardening bulge beneath his trousers.

“Ah, Emily, where are you?” He moaned, gripping himself harder and moving his hand faster as enticing thoughts raced through his mind, each one accompanied by a soft grunt or groan.

A voice that was harsh and composed at the same time brought him out of his reverie, leaving him to hastily wipe the creamy substance that now coated his aching fingers onto his pants.

“Hello,” greeted Delilah Copperspoon.

 

“She visited me here. Such a surprise to see her, all grown up. So serious. Did you know she was once a playmate of Jessamine’s? Before she was Empress, when they were both little. I thought it was a cordial visit at first, but it turned... frightening.”

Daud eyed the waxy red drawings etched on the walls. “What happened?”

“She made... things come out of the shadows. Long and grasping. I can still feel the cold on my neck. I sound mad, don’t I? Perhaps I am.”

From the state of his apartment, and the odd twinkle in the man's eye, Daud wouldn’t have disagreed with him.

“She questioned me and then left me propped in the corner like a bolt of cloth. I couldn’t move for three nights while she made the horrid markings you see now.” Eyes full of sorrow, Patrick managed to utter his next sentence without bursting into a fit of rage or a heartbroken tantrum. “Then she stole my only keepsake, my lock of hair from dear, sweet Emily.”

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions are appreciated :)


End file.
